


Finishing The Job

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Series: Flesh, Blood & Heart [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Discipline, Other, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-04
Updated: 2007-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, sorry, but we’ve been trying to find this demon for two weeks now and you say ‘oh, wait, it’s something else entirely’ and everything we’ve been doing is pointless!” Sam was physically and mentally exhausted. The hunt had taken its toll on all of them, but most particularly Sam. He needed a lot of sleep and he needed to see the progress he was making or he became frustrated.</p><p>John, however, was tired too, and he was in no mood to deal with Sam’s attitude. “Either you watch your tone or you can go to bed now and leave this one to me and your brother. Is that what you want?”</p><p>“No, sir,” Sam said sulkily. John rubbed his temples. Between Dean’s deliberate stupidity and Sam’s uncontrollable disrespect he was going to break his main rule and kill a human before too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finishing The Job

**Author's Note:**

> As with the other stories in this series, it's an AU consisting of a still-kicking John Winchester who administers discipline to his adult sons when he feels they deserve it. If you don't like spankings, you shouldn't read the crap I write.

“It’s pretty clear that we’re hunting a liche,” John concluded.

“Come again?” Dean asked.

“An undead necromancer,” John explained, shuffling through the newspaper clippings.

“Somebody who sleeps with dead chicks?” The disgust was evident in Dean’s voice.

“No, genius, that’s a necrophile,” Sam snapped.

“You watch your tone, Sam,” his father ordered.

“Well, sorry, but we’ve been trying to find this demon for two weeks now and you say ‘oh, wait, it’s something else entirely’ and everything we’ve been doing is pointless!” Sam was physically and mentally exhausted. The hunt had taken its toll on all of them, but most particularly Sam. He needed a lot of sleep and he needed to see the progress he was making or he became frustrated.

John, however, was tired too, and he was in no mood to deal with Sam’s attitude. “Either you watch your tone or you can go to bed now and leave this one to me and your brother. Is that what you want?”

“No, sir,” Sam said sulkily. John rubbed his temples. Between Dean’s deliberate stupidity and Sam’s uncontrollable disrespect he was going to break his main rule and kill a human before too long.

“Good. Now, a necromancer traditionally is a human who gains access to texts about the supernatural and abuses them for his own purpose. He’ll learn to summon and harness demons, wreak havoc on civilians and eventually he’ll decide he wants to live forever. So he separates his soul from his body, puts it in a phylactery and becomes virtually immortal. He has eternity to develop his powers, is impervious to physical pain, poison, salt, fire and everything else you can name. If he touches a human, they’ll enter into a coma and eventually die. Often, he’ll surround himself with other corpses for protection.”

“Well, that sucks,” Dean muttered. “But if it’s invincible that means we can just call it a night, right?”

John glared. “As long as your brother’s watching his tone, you can watch your sarcasm. The necromancer can be killed once his phylactery is destroyed.”

Dean frowned. “So he hides his soul somewhere and you have to destroy it before he becomes mortal again and you kill him?”

“That’s right.”

“Dude, how freaking Harry Potter can you get?”

Sam looked nonplussed. “What?”

“Harry’s got to destroy all these pieces of Voldemort’s soul before Voldemort can be defeated,” Dean explained.

Sam shrugged. “Okay. I’m still waiting on the movie for that one.”

Dean gave him an incredulous look. “You don’t read Harry Potter? God, sometimes it’s like we’re not even related.”

John cleared his throat loudly, and both boys jumped to attention.

“What this means is that we’re going to need someone with more experience in this,” he continued. "I’ve never hunted one myself and I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Do we know anybody who can handle something like it?” Dean asked.

John nodded abstractedly. “Man named Bill Hudson,” he said. “Lives up in Delaware. I’ll give him a call, see if he can come out to Oklahoma himself.” He sat for a moment, deep in thought. “You boys can go to sleep if you want. I’ll get the information I have on liches for you in the morning.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Dean said. He could use the sleep and he hoped Sam would follow his lead, because being tired upped his brother’s bitch quotient by at least half.

“You will give us the information?” Sam asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

“M’kay.” Sam said, crawling into bed and falling asleep within two minutes.

“Delaware’s a helluva random state,” Dean muttered to himself since Sam was already out. “Is there anything even in Delaware?”

He too fell asleep before he had come up with an answer.

***

When Dean woke up he immediately noticed that John hadn’t been to bed the night before. His father was sitting exactly where they had left him, glaring at Sam’s laptop and talking on his phone.

“I don’t know how to find out, dammit! I told you, I’ve never seen one before. I don’t even know where to start looking.”

A moment later, in a softer tone of voice, “No, he’s dead…. Look, Bill, I wouldn’t ask. I know you don’t go after them anymore. But it’s going after this town like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Me and my boys—we don’t know how to stop it.”

There was another short pause and John started speaking again, quicker, with a hint of hope. “It started about three weeks ago. Houses catching fire with no explanation. Then a string of…well, of grave robberies. Only one of them from us. And then two days ago a woman fell into a coma. Yesterday another one. That’s what gave us the clue.”

Dean could hear the undercurrent of excitement in John’s voice. Why was he this excited about getting the man to come out? They could handle it, he was confident of that.

“That’s right. Scarlet, Oklahoma. Sure is an odd name…. Good. Be good to see you.” Hanging up the phone, John turned to Dean. “Okay, Dean. I know you’re awake.”

“So your friend’s coming down?” Dean asked, blushing a little because he had been eavesdropping. If John knew, though, he hadn’t minded.

“He is.” John coughed slightly. “And Dean, Bill hasn’t hunted anything in a good fifteen years. This is rare for him. You need to respect him and not ask him any questions.”

“Why?”

“His son was killed by a liche they were hunting. Died before Bill could find the phylactery. He wouldn’t have come, but…I told him about you and Sam. Seemed to make up his mind.”

“Oh.” There was nothing else Dean could say. He didn’t really do the whole sympathy shit thing.

“Anyway, he’s going to be here by tonight. Here.” He gave Dean a small sheet of hotel stationery, which Dean took and read. The information was essentially the same as what his father had told him the night before: virtually indestructible, summons and controls demons and other undead, cannot be killed unless the soul is first destroyed.

“Get your brother up. We’re going to the library,” John said.

“Dude, does Sam have to come?” Dean asked, looking at his younger brother, still knocked out cold.

“You think he’d forgive you if you left him?”

Dean sighed and threw a pillow at Sam. “Hey, geek-boy, we’re going to your favorite place.”

***

“So what are we looking for, exactly?” Sam asked, hugging his arms inside his sweatshirt, a pace behind his father and brother despite his long legs.

“Missing persons from the last 20, 25 years,” John replied. “An older individual, most likely a male living alone. Came from a wealthy, established family. No body ever found.”

“That’s a weird thought,” Sam said quietly. “Living alone and dying…who knows when they’d find you?”

“Well, this thing doesn’t want to be found,” John said tersely, annoyed that Sam wasn’t staying on focus. “And it’s not dead.”

At the library John sent Sam and Dean to browse through old newspapers on microfilm as he checked the death certificates. Several hours passed with Dean pointing out articles about the Scarlet Women’s Sewing Society or the winner of the annual pie-eating contest. This culminated with Sam locating an article about fratricide and threatening to re-enact it if he had to endure one more story about a woman whose kittens actually _did_ get stuck in a tree.

As one o’clock rolled by, John came to collect his sons for lunch.

“You boys find any leads?” he asked between mouthfuls of hamburger.

“No,” Sam said testily. “But we could have if Dean hadn’t been slowing us down so much.”

“That so?” John asked, addressing his oldest.

“What? No,” Dean assured him. “Honestly, Dad, I don’t think there’s anything to find. Until three weeks ago, this town was quieter than Mayfield.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” John admitted. “So I asked a few questions before I came to get you. Seems our liche isn’t officially dead.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“Man named Harmon Scarlet,” John said. “Descendant of the man who founded this town. He was extremely wealthy and some kind of recluse. And no one can recall him leaving the house for at least ten years.”

“Have they searched the house for a body?” Dean asked, all business. John shook his head.

“He’s still alive, according to the librarian. Pays his bills, has food delivered—but no one’s seen him.”

“So no one comes looking for a body. They just think of him as eccentric,” Sam said. “Clever.”

“Okay, back up a minute,” Dean said. “So a necromancer becomes a liche, then waits ten years before doing anything about it? Why?”

John paused. “You’ll have to ask Bill Hudson,” he said finally. “I don’t know much about liches, but Bill told me it was usually between five and twenty-five years before the new abilities become apparent enough for a hunter to recognize them.” He took another bite of his hamburger, finishing it off. “I’ve heard, too, that time increases the skills of a liche. And that may have something to do with it. But I can’t be sure.” He slapped a twenty and a ten down on the table and stood up.

“You’re paying cash?” Dean asked, disbelieving.

“We may be here for another month,” John said grimly. “Finding a phylactery is a hell of a job. And we don’t want any trouble while we wait. Now come on, we need to get back to the library.”

“The library again?” Dean moaned. “But you already figured out who it is…”

“And we need to learn everything we can about him,” John said sharply. “Now get your ass up and follow me.”

Dean sighed in frustration, but not loudly enough for John to call him on it. The Winchesters returned to the library, where Dean was pissed to find only a few passing references to Harmon Scarlet, all of them simply citing his wealth and reclusive tendencies. After an hour or two of Dean sending more and more frustrated looks at his father and brother, reading about the history of the Scarlet family, John’s cell phone vibrated.

“That’s Bill,” John said. “He’s meeting us at the hotel.”

Both boys jumped out of their seats, glad to leave the library, but John pulled Dean back as Sam took the lead.

“I don’t appreciate the attitude I’m getting from you, buddy,” he warned. “It’s been a long hunt and you and your brother are tired, but you still respect what we’re doing and follow orders. Is that clear?”

“Yessir,” Dean replied, looking down at the floor.

“Good.” John released his oldest son, who scurried to catch up with his brother.

“Dude, just watch it,” he heard Sam mutter. “Dad’s on one of those pater familias kicks again and it’s probably a good idea to lay low.” John sighed, shaking his head. He was so damn proud of his ridiculously childish, incredibly experienced sons.

Back at the hotel, a man was waiting inside their room. Sam decided not to bother asking how he’d gotten inside. He was older than John, probably in his sixties, with a white beard and long white ponytail.

“Bill,” John said warmly. “It’s damn good to see you.”

“John,” the man grunted, his eyes taking in Sam and Dean. “And your boys?”

“That’s right,” said John, nodding. “Sam and Dean.”

“Good to meet you,” Dean said, offering his hand to the hunter.

“You must be Dean,” the man replied. “And Sammy?”

“It’s Sam,” Said said, but he smiled and it lacked the venom he usually used.

“Sam. Nice to meet you both,” Bill said. “You dad’s told me a lot about you.” He turned his attention back to John. “So what do we know about him?”

“Identity—Harmon Scarlet. Not legally dead, widely considered to be a hermit. No one’s seen him in ten years.”

Bill fixed his eyes on John. “Scarlet as in Scarlet, Oklahoma?”

“That’s right,” John agreed.

“Any idea what sort of a phylactery we’re looking for?”

After shooting a glance at John, Sam broke in. “Actually, the last time he did anything publicly was eleven years ago. He gave a selection of paintings from his father’s estate to the museum downtown. We thought that one of them could be it.”

Bill addressed John again. “That so, John?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I expect we should go check into that tonight,” he said.

“How do you tell what’s a phylactery and what’s not?” Dean asked, curious.

“Ectoplasm,” Bill replied shortly. “It’ll discharge if the phylactery is exposed to flame.”

“So what do you do, walk around the museum with a lighter?” Dean asked jokingly.

“Yes,” Bill said, fixing him with a glance.

“Oh.” John noticed that his son seemed mildly embarrassed, but he would shake it off within minutes. And at least Dean wasn’t being _embarrassing…._

***

Bill and Dean stood in the shadows as Sam started hacking into the security device.

“So…what is there to do in Delaware?” Dean asked, trying once more to make conversation.

“Nothing,” Bill said. “That’s why I live there.”

“Oh.” Once again Dean was left with nothing to add to that.

They waited in silence for another few minutes until Sam called softly “We’re in!”

“Alright,” said Dean, relieved.

John passed out the lighters he had purchased—good lighters that would stay on as they walked around.

“The museum’s small, but with a liche or security that can be a problem,” he reminded his sons. “You see anything out of the ordinary—and I mean anything—and you call me and Bill.”

“What do we do if a picture starts leaking ectoplasm?” Dean asked.

“You get me,” Bill replied.

“It won’t attack me or anything?”

“It will if you try to do anything about it,” Bill said. “Which is why you get me and your daddy.”

Sam frowned. He was really getting tired of being treated like little kids. And he knew that Bill Hudson probably had more kid issues than anyone he’d ever met, but that was no reason to take it out on them. He just hoped Dean, the main target, would have the sense not to say anything to Bill’s face.

For his part, John hadn’t been on many hunts that involved walking around darkened art galleries with an old-fashioned cigarette lighter. He wondered briefly whether it would be effective if the picture were behind glass, then remembered some of Bill’s examples of heavily protected phylacteries he had encountered before.

And midway through his second room, John noticed the pearly, viscous substance leaking down the wall from behind a portrait of an old man. He looked at the nameplate: _A Portrait of Alexander Scarlet._ “Yahtzee,” he muttered, and went to alert the others.

He found his sons first and was pleased when they immediately sensed his presence and reached for their knives. “It’s in the second room to the left off the entry,” he told them. “You wait for me.”

“Like we’d know how to do anything else,” Sam muttered as they observed the picture.

“Dude…that’s fugly,” Dean said, squinting at it.

“It’s actually an excellent example of the resurgence in neoclassicism,” Sam said. “But yeah, it is kind of ugly.”

“Kind of ugly? That guy looks like—” Dean began, but they were interrupted by the arrival of Bill and John.

“Stand back,” Bill warned. “Sam, Dean, you keep an eye on the door.”

“But I want to know how to—” Dean protested, but John cut him off.

“Son, you guard the door to this room and you don’t give any backtalk when somebody gives you an order. Is that clear?”

“Yessir.” Dean huffed a little as he and Sam took up positions by the entrance, armed with dead man’s blood.

“Don’t touch it,” Bill advised John. He pulled a large vial filled with a dark liquid from his shoulder bag. Lifting the painting carefully from the wall, still inside its frame, he turned it facedown and removed the back panel before dousing it with the solution.

“What is that?” John asked.

“Mixed oil and dead man’s blood,” the man replied. He flicked open his lighter and allowed it to drop to the soaked canvas, which flared and burned. Dean and Sam couldn’t help themselves from turning to watch as it went up in greasy smoke.

“What now?” Dean asked.

“Now you and Sam get back to the hotel while your daddy and me hunt down this bastard and kill him.”

That was all Dean could take. “No, sir,” he said. “We’re coming with you.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Bill growled.

“No, it’s not,” Dean protested. “We destroyed the phylactery, and that means he can be killed just like any walking corpse. It’ll be easy.”

“Which means we won’t need you,” said the older hunter. “So you and your brother are going back to the hotel.”

“Screw that!” Dean yelled in frustration. “Look, I know your son died and everything, but Sam and I can do this. We’re not kids anymore!”

John was at his side quicker than most of the ghosts they’d hunted, grabbing his arm and landing two impossibly hard swats to his butt. “You’re still my kids and you had strict directions about obeying orders,” he barked. “You go back to the hotel now, Dean Winchester, and I’ll deal with this when I get in. I don’t care what time it is. Now move!”

Both his sons could usually tell when they had pushed it too far, after the fact. They made their way out of the museum quickly. Dean’s face was bright red.

“Bill, I don’t know what I can say,” John said uncomfortably.

“You boy’s right,” the other hunter replied testily. “He’s damn rude, but he’s right. There wasn’t any reason for me to make them go back to the hotel.”

“Well, we can handle this one on our own,” said John. “And he had no call to say that to you.”

“Let’s just finish the job,” said Bill.

***

Back at the hotel, Dean was pacing back and forth and aggravating Sam to no end.

“Dude, calm down,” Sam suggested, and Dean glared at him.

“What the hell do you mean, calm down? How am I supposed to calm down when Dad’s going to come in and…” he didn’t finish the thought, but they both knew what John would probably do to his eldest son.

The two older hunters came into the hotel sometime after three in the morning. Dean had finally stopped pacing and collapsed into a chair, but he jumped up when he saw them enter.

“Look, Bill, I’m really sorry,” he said sincerely. He had debated calling the man “Mr. Hudson” but decided that was taking the sorry kid line a little too far. “I had no right to say that to you. There’s no excuse for it.”

“Thank you, Dean,” the man said, more tired and less cold than he had been previously. “And I owe you and your brother an apology as well. I know you’re both fully capable hunters.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, blushing slightly.

“Why don’t we take a walk, Dean-o?” John asked, and Dean’s blush got deeper.

“Yessir,” he said.

“Don’t wait up for us,” John advised Sam and Bill. “It might be a while.”

Outside, the walk led behind the hotel and into a wooded area with a picnic table. John seated himself and motioned for Dean to join him before speaking.

“You want to tell me what happened tonight?” he asked. Dean breathed a sigh of relief, because John was much calmer than he had been four hours ago when he sent his sons back to the hotel.

“I lost my temper, sir,” he said quietly. “I didn’t listen to Bill when I should have. And I was disobeying an order after you had warned me a couple of times about it. And…I said something I really shouldn’t have. And I’m really sorry, sir.”

“I know you are,” John said. “But we still have to finish the job, don’t we?”

“Yessir,” Dean said quietly, hanging his head. He knew that tonight it wouldn’t be the usual struggle for his father to bring him to tears. He was too tired and too ashamed of himself.

“Alright then, lose the jeans,” his father said.

Dean stood up, unzipped his jeans and pushed them quickly to his knees. He placed himself over his father’s lap, doing his best not to squirm as John repositioned him slightly.

“You know better than to disobey an order, Dean,” John reminded as he started spanking.

The first smacks were enough to let Dean know that his father was serious about doing this right. They came hard and fast, methodically painting his bottom red. By the third set of smacks, Dean couldn’t help letting a small noise escape as his eyes filled with tears. John ignored it, covering the target area twice more before addressing Dean.

“Orders hold whether they come from me, Bill Hudson, or anyone else who has seniority on a hunt,” he said. “And whether you like them or not, you’re going to listen to them. I’ve had to remind you too many times over the past 24 hours, so maybe you just needed this.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, his voice catching a little as he felt the first hot tear trickle along the bridge of his nose.

“Glad to hear it. I don’t expect to have this discussion with you again.”

“No, sir,” Dean agreed fervently.

“And as for what you said to Bill—” John deftly removed his son’s underwear, noting the light red of Dean’s backside. “That was inexcusable, and I think you know that.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean admitted, and the next few tears plopped onto the wooden bench.

“You may have been tired, and you may have had a valid reason. But there was no reason to mention his son or be so disrespectful.”

And Dean felt his father’s hand collide with his smarting backside. John wasn’t holding back, and Dean knew he deserved it, but _God damn it,_ that hurt. The tears were coming more quickly now, and soon he was crying freely. His father didn’t say anything, just kept bringing his hand down. Dean hung his head, too tired to do anything but cry.

As Dean’s cheeks darkened, John realized that he’d had enough. It probably wasn’t what he normally would have gotten, but the boy was tired. He was sobbing quietly, and there was no question about remorse. Any more spanking simply wouldn’t be effective.

He tugged Dean’s underwear back into place, helping his son to his feet and pulling his jeans up over the sore bottom. Dean fumbled a little with the button, not meeting John’s eyes.

“Hey,” John said, his voice softer than usual, “C’mere, kiddo.” He pulled Dean into a tight hug, knowing that he needed the reassurance but would never ask for it. Dean wrapped his arms quickly around John, pressing his face into his father’s jacket.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly, and John let his smarting hand run circles on Dean’s back, soothing them both.

“It’s okay, Dean, I know,” he said. “We’re all just a little tired.”

Dean started fidgeting after a minute and John released him. “Let’s go get some sleep before checkout, okay?”

Dean nodded, exhausted. As he crawled into bed beside his brother, the sheets grazing his ass uncomfortably, he couldn’t help wondering why he was so glad to be hunting with his father again. He fell asleep before coming up with a clear answer.


End file.
